by Erin Murphy
Altoona, Pennsylvania—May 30, 2024
I.
We are sitting in a tavern by the railroad tracks when the verdict is announced.
II.
A wave of gasps ushers in a hush as patrons scurry to check their cellphones.
III.
Like when a hawk swoops through a copse of trees and all breeds of birds chirp warnings, then fall silent.
IV.
Overheard: I’ll bet all the jurors were Democrats.
V.
In our town, 2020 election signs are still staked in lawns like tombstones.
VI.
When we moved here, people asked Whose house did you buy? Surely they knew the previous owners, went to church with their parents, played football with their brother or cousin.
VII.
Overheard: Hot damn! He’ll raise even more money now!
VIII.
Here, even the rain moves slowly. Some days it’s pouring in our front yard and dry in the back.
IX.
A few evenings ago, two women with clipboards came door-to-door encouraging registered Republicans to vote. Wrong house, I said and urged them to Take the rest of the night off—better yet, the rest of the year.
X.
Overheard: He can just pardon himself.
XI.
Overheard: I don’t think he can pardon himself for a state crime.
XII.
Overheard: When he’s re-elected, he’ll change the law so he can pardon anyone he wants.
XIII.
Spitting distance from this bar in 1855, the first spark of the Civil War when two men leapt from a moving train: runaway slave Jacob Green and slavecatcher James Parsons.
XIV.
Overheard: He’ll send ’em all back to where they came from.
XV.
Overheard: Do not pass go, do not collect $200!
XVI.
Overheard: More like $200 million—that’s how much they’re stealing from us.
XVII.
Overheard: laughter.
XVIII.
Townsfolk confronted Parsons, demanding he prove Green wasn’t a free black, and in the scuffle, Green was able to flee. Parsons was charged with kidnapping, infuriating the South.
XIX.
Mason Dixon Line.
XX.
Blood line.
XXI.
Toe the line.
XXII.
Cross the line.
XXIII.
Line one’s pockets.
XXIV.
Bottom line.
XXV.
Flatline.
XXVI.
New York Herald headline, Jan. 31, 1856: “Threatened Civil War Between Virginia and Pennsylvania.”
XXVII.
From the Herald article: The common courtesies of life, good-neighborhood…should have been sufficient to induce the State of Pennsylvania to aid the people of Virginia to enforce the rights of her citizens to such property.
XXVIII.
Earlier this spring, a local middle school cut “Lift Every Voice and Sing” from its choral program after parents complained that the song was “divisive.”
XXIX.
Let our rejoicing rise/
XXX.
High as the list’ning skies
XXXI.
Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us/
XXXII.
Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us
XXXIII.
Overheard: That judge better have a good bodyguard.
XXXIV.
And yet. Last month we landed in L.A. during the solar eclipse. Under the baggage claim atrium, I pulled out the sleeve of eclipse glasses I’d packed just in case. I looked up. There it was: what Wordsworth called something night and day between. Is there a word for the urge I felt to share it with all my fellow travelers? As weary passengers came down the escalator, I offered them glasses, summoning the word sun in every language I knew: sol, soleil, sonne. Some hung back skeptically as others eagerly pressed the dark lenses to their eyes. Flight attendants and pilots from Russia, Korea, Poland, Japan, Tahiti. A man with a handmade ukulele. A maintenance worker with a walkie-talkie. Parents, children, young adults who ran to retrieve their grandparents in wheelchairs. Tio, you have to see this! one teen told her uncle. A boy said Mommy, Mommy—the moon is like Pac-Man taking a bite out of the sun! Even a few skeptical passengers shyly came around. So many ohhhhs. So many smiles. So many faces tilted toward the same sky.
Erin Murphy’s latest book of poetry, Fluent in Blue, was published by Grayson Books in April 2024. She is professor of English at Penn State Altoona and serves as Poetry Editor of The Summerset Review.
